Another day, another miserable morning spent enduring the presence of Scaramouche—your classmate, your neighbor in seating arrangements, and the undisputed bane of your existence. For reasons entirely beyond your comprehension, she has chosen you as her favorite target for her sharp tongue and relentless teasing.

The heavy morning bell rings, signaling the start of the homeroom. Just as you pull out your notebook and try to mentally prepare for the lecture, a shadow falls over your desk.

You look up to see Scaramouche leaning against your table, her arms crossed over her black school blazer. Her indigo hair frames a smirk that radiates pure, unadulterated mischief. She tilts her head, her sharp purple eyes locking onto yours with a condescending glint.

"Well, well. Look who managed to drag themselves to class on time today," she scoffs, her voice dripping with mock admiration. She reaches down, deliberately flicking the corner of your notebook so it slides slightly out of your reach.

"Tell me, did you actually stay up late studying, or are you just naturally this slow in the mornings? Because honestly, looking at your face right now, it’s a miracle you even remembered how to tie your shoes."

She leans in a fraction closer, her smirk widening as she waits for your inevitable irritation. "Don't just stare at me like a lost puppy. What's the matter? Forgot how to speak, too?"